


They Remember

by Runeless



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road, mad max - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, New Kingdoms, Post-Apocalyptic, Post-Canon, Queens, Rebuilding, Restoration, after canon, legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runeless/pseuds/Runeless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fury Road, everyone is remembered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Remember

**THEY REMEMBER**

 

When they talk, in later years, of the great Furiosa, and the new queendom she founded, they will remember the others, too, who drove historic on the Fury Road. 

                The Wives, of course, are the first to be remembered, though not a one of them is remembered as Wives first, or second, or even third.  Immortan Joe’s torment of them becomes a footnote, their captivity under him a prologue to their story; they are remembered as people, to the deepest credit of the First History Man and all the History People who will come after him.  This is their final victory, in the end; Immortan Joe, who was once worshipped as God, is reduced to a point of data in the lives of those greater than him, and so they deny him every form of life, even that of importance in memory.

They are remembered as Dag, Keeper of Seeds, who made the sand blossom again with time and curses enough, who never having been born Vuvalini in time became the most Vuvalini of them all.  It was she who reintroduced the system of clans, an easy way to avoid inbreeding and to inspire solidarity among a people defined by their nature as outcasts and lost children of a dead world; it was she who, bedecked in glory as savior of the people, performed the rituals the remaining Vuvalini had taught her that put Furiosa back into her clan of birth.  Dag, Keeper of Seeds, the new Mother Earth.  Dag, whose child was a daughter she named, in compassion and memory, as Angharad (not Splendid, never Splendid, Joe’s pet name for her; Angharad, her name proper.) 

When the ages begin to turn, and all now living are dead, Dag has the memorial that still lives: a tree, with a carving of her face and name, which grows and grows, whose roots, in time, will sink into the aquifer that feeds the plants that feed the world.  It is but one of many green memorials to her; every plant that blooms, every person who eats, is testimony to Dag and her effect on the wasteland.

They are remembered as Capable, who succeeded Furiosa when age and time and inclination finally brought the mighty warrior to resign from the throne.  Capable, who reigned as Queen in her own right for a long time.  Long live the Queen!  Long live this Queen, who loved her people and was loved, who before crowning devoted herself to the rehabilitation of the War Boys and who after crowning never lost her compassion- nor the loyalty of the old soldiers of Joe, who still retained their warrior’s wisdom when the invaders came, travelers from across the distant salt.  Remnants of a land once known as the United States, driving remnants once known as the U.S. Navy, they came in jury-rigged aircraft carriers on massive treads, whose nuclear engines still burned, so long after their atomic brethren had burned all else to ash. 

It was Queen Capable who reigned when they came to conquer and despoil, and it was the former War Boys whom she had saved who saved her in turn; the Capable, they named themselves in her honor, fighting underneath the new Imperator Toast the Knowing, knowing of warfare and death.  The Capable fought, and old experience and a willingness to die for the right reasons this time beat technological superiority and human evil until the great carriers ran aground on the desert shores of the Citadel.  It was Capable- Queen Capable!- who went aboard those abandoned hulks and found the slave-scientists still chained to their stations, manning the great engines.  It was Capable, Queen most Capable, who in setting them free gained one engine for herself- the others left, pursuing their tormenters back across the salt with the aid of those of the Capable whose days were yet numbered and wished to spend them in defense of the Queendom… but the no-longer-slave scientists aboard a ship that, a long time ago, had borne a name of honor declined, deciding to settle down amongst the people.  And the engine they brought with them powered a million improvements, in the time they yet had- a half-life measured in the easing of pain.

Her memorial is in the power plant, built on the ruined foundations of that ancient machine, where a picture of her hangs above an old set of broken chains.  She has one other memorial; in the hall of queens, where sits, first and foremost Furiosa, beside her rises Capable, who is held in no less esteem as a Queen.  And there is no honor greater than that.

( And two memorials she built, too, for a War Boy named Nux who, like the Capable that came after him, was saved by her, and who saved her in turn; and on her queen’s memorial, there at her feet, is a tiny memorial for him, matched by a large one in a valley, where he died that Furiosa and the Queendom might live.  But Nux’s memory is not yet ready to be spoken of.)

They are remembered as Toast, the Knowing, who knew everything and, better, knew what to do with that knowledge.  Toast, knowing that the new land would need weapons, who knew that she knew weapons, and that no leader ever ruled without a general.  Toast, who left the Citadel for the leaderless Bullet Farm with nothing more than a small group of Immortan Joe’s most wretched  
and her own vast mind, which proved enough to overtake the conniving gunbarons who were fighting for control after the People Eater’s death and declare herself Imperator, and mistress of the Bullet Farm.  Furiosa’s own Imperator, and Capable’s after her, Toast the Knowing, Toast the Imperator.

Toast, who rebuilt the Farm from the ground up, who employed rather than enslaved, who trained rather than brainwashed, who enshrined a culture not of warfare but of _discipline_ , not of violence but of _protection_ , not of warriors but of _soldiers_.  Toast, who led the Capable when the invaders came, who knew their machines better than they did and in knowing knew how to beat them.  Toast, who built new machines, engines, guns, defibrillators- who built some of the first new things in all the world.

Her memorial is in the Bullet Farm, but it is also the Bullet Farm itself, where military cadences have replaced barbaric war cries, where professionalism has replaced savagery, where saving a life is more valued than taking one.  Her memorial is made out of the bullet teeth of the gunbarons who opposed her, of spent brass shell casings fired against her, of three-piece suits and piercings owned by her opposition- proof of overcoming all, a bust of her head made out of her victories.  She is ranked as an Imperator of five stars, a tradition brought by the former slave-scientists Capable freed, and all are ranked beneath her in the Bullet Farm; she is considered to always be on active duty, a testament to her memory that would please her more than a thousand memorials. 

Toast, who loved a woman of her own choosing in later years, and lies buried beside her in a quiet cemetery bearing her name, dedicated to the soldiers who die in the defense of the realm, a final symbol of her connection to her army.  Imperator’s grave, marked by a book and a sniper rifle, on which green things grow.

They remember them as Cheedo the Fragile, whose name became ironic the moment she helped Furiosa kill the most dangerous man in the Citadel.  Cheedo, whose Fragile nature was strong enough to backstab Immortan Joe, god-king.  Cheedo, Fragile, who was more surprised than any, whose own brave, terrified trickery made possible all the hope of their ending.  Cheedo is hailed and given credit as the one who carried Furiosa- Furiosa!  First of Queens!  Praise her name!- that final distance, towards Joe and redemption and victory, and she is stunned to tears for it.  She is praised, and for the first time in her young life, she is looked at with more than disdain, envy, or lust; she is looked at with admiration, and respect, and hope.

Cheedo, Fragile, from whom greatness was never expected, who even she never expected greatness from.  Cheedo, whose life has suddenly opened up, who is Fragile, but proved her worth and that she was so much more; Cheedo, who turns fragility into strength, both on the Gigahorse and in her own life.  Cheedo, who grew in the wake of her great, heroic treachery, her unexpected valor.  There were two redemptions on that machine, the one known that is Furiosa’s, but less sung of is Cheedo’s; Cheedo, who would have returned, but for a bullet and steady aim. Cheedo, who not a day after her cowardice took Furiosa in her shaking hands and saved all of them, herself most of all.

In the wake of her heroism, she changes, grows, and embraces her brave friends, her dead brave friend most of all; it is Cheedo, Fragile, who believes more fiercely in Angharad’s dream of the Green Place than anyone, with all the furious zeal of the convert.  More than Immortan Joe died when Cheedo pulled Furiosa up onto his Gigahorse, his grand chariot; Cheedo’s self-doubt died, Cheedo’s worries died, Cheedo’s smallness died.  In their place Cheedo grows that great and little attribute that can only be called _faith,_ the water faith, that moves the mountains by time and determination alone, that baptizes and washes away all sin.  In the aftermath, Cheedo preaches, there is no other word for screaming holy words from atop a moving winch as it climbs the mountains, terrified of the fall but pushing on, hoping that the sight of her hanging from a rope above her death will be dramatic enough that the people will stop and _listen_.  She is never quite not scared, she is still Fragile on the inside, but it fuels her courage, it fuels her faith; none doubt her, for they see not an icy fanatic but a person, like them, but filled with hope.  When Dag, Keeper of Seeds, begins to spread the teachings of the Vuvalini, the Many Mothers, wisest of all peoples, it is Cheedo who propels it forward.  Dag will always lead the rituals, but it is Cheedo that the people love.    

Cheedo, fragile like diamond, fragile like glorious steel, who drives them all; the others lead, but there must be fuel for every engine, there must be nourishment for every soul, and hope is the only guzzoline that springs eternal, the only drink greater even than Joe’s reclaimed waters.  Cheedo brings hope, brings word of a woman who died historic on the Fury Road, of women who mastered the Green Place, and though she never takes an official position, the Vuvalini who are left bless her, and call her Reverend Mother.  Cheedo, who never quite believes she is as great as her friends, who is perpetually surprised by the influence she wields, by those who come to be blessed by her, to hear from the prophet herself, by those who trust and love her.  Cheedo, who only rarely truly thinks she has a right to any of it, even as Dag does her best to convince her she does, that she is loved.

Cheedo, who with Dag forms the beginnings of a church, a Church Green, that believes in green places and growing things and, above all else, that which feels like hope.  It gives hope even in the darkest days, when ancient machines roar in from the east, when raiders threaten, when all things seem at an end; and so Cheedo, who publicly disdains wasting resources on memorials and privately does not believe she deserves one, who never receives one, receives a thousand instead.  Every prayer whispered in desperate times, every hope wished for in desperate times, and all the faith in the queendom becomes her memorial, and she is honored more often than any of her compatriots.  Dag arranges for Cheedo to be buried next to her, and it is only when Cheedo, now a decade into her mission, hears this that she finally understands that she is loved.  She weeps for it, and when the end comes, she does not believe herself so undeserving.

They remember Angharad, who died, who is remembered as a saint, who time transforms into a legendary figure, who led them to the Green Place at last, even though she never saw it herself.  Angharad, who none forget, and all mourn.  Angharad, who convinced an Imperator to redeem herself and in so doing was the greatest hero of them all.  Angharad, who receives a holy day and a million memorials, and for whom it never feels like quite enough.

Nux, who died, who was brave, who was proof that the War Boys were victims as much as the Wives, who was innocent and kind and a killer, Nux, for whom the gates opened three times, but who slammed them shut the fourth time, who defied them, defied the evil old faith he was taught; Nux, who died, not for Valhalla, but for love, and hope, the only two forces stronger even than death.  Nux, who lived, died, and lives again, for every moment the Queendom exists is a moment that is owed to Nux.  Nux’s memorial is made out of what was left of the War Rig, and when Furiosa makes her deal with the desert riders- a deal made not as a traitorous Imperator, but as a Queen- they let it stand, part of the treaty.  He stays above the pass he defended, and like Toast before him, Nux is marked down as always on duty by the lists of Bullet Farm; his memorial stands faithful, and Capable visits it when she can.  Even when she moves on, when she finds another she loves, she visits, for Nux was first, and “it could have been” remain words of power, even in the apocalypse.

The last… Max… who was mad, who came up with the great plan.  Who is remembered as Furiosa’s sidekick, as her strange comrade and companion in arms, who is half man, half ghost- or half angel, as the Church eventually decides to tell it, who came to help her claim her throne and then vanished back into the dust.  Max, who wandered alone, but together, saved them all.  Max, who they hear stories of, later… of a wanderer, a drifter, fighter of gangs, hero.  Max, who they recognize a hundred times over again, the stories legends permutating across lips and distance.  Max, who in helping Furiosa gain her redemption gained his own- who remembered his name, and his purpose.  Who put on his policeman’s garb one last time, and went out into the desert, and _gave_ \- gave of himself, gave of his compassion, gave _hope_.

Mad Max, who helps one last time- as Furiosa, older, wiser, and stricken by wanderlust, decides to do as he had done, as they had heard him do, and go out into the world, and _give_.  She is inspired, and so she does- leaving as Max had left, with a single glance towards the one who would be the new Queen, a nod, and a final wandering out into the desert.

And in future years, the stories she will spark in her travels- the heroics of those tales- will inspire the next generation, who will go forth and reclaim the Earth that their ancestors despoiled, and the memorial of Max and Furiosa is nothing so petty as a statue- it is as grand as a good Earth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my ideas for the tomorrows of everyone involved... the ways they might grow, past the Fury Road.


End file.
